MORTALITY.
[FROM THE "SPECTATOR," FEBRVARY 1.]
How do the roses die?
Do their leaves fall together, Thrown down and scattered by the sky Of angry weather?
No,—the sad thunder-stroke O'ersweeps their lowly bower ; The storm that tramples on the oak _ Relents above the flower.
No violence makes them grieve, No wrath hath done them wrong, When with sad secrecy they leave The branch to which they clung.
They yield them, one by one, To the light breeze and shower, To the soft dew, cool shade, bright sun, Time and the hour. J. S. D.
[TRANSLATION.]
NOSTINE lath quo percent roam? Omnisne eadem copia frondium Dejecta vastatur ruina, et Sideribus spoliate iniquis
At fulminantis dire manna Jovis Pmsti jacentis devia prwterit, Quercumque qui prosternit Burns, Flos, tibi deposuit furores.
Non terret illas ira minantium, Non insolenti via rapuit menu, Cum stirpe natali relicta,
Cmca tra.hunt sua quamque fata.
At defatigat sors sua singulas, Seu carpet imber, seu Zephyrus levis, Sol acer, umbrosumve frigus, Ros tener, hora, diesve longa.
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